by Cathie Linz
She shrugged. “My dad took me to the shooting range whenever he had time. He wasn’t a hunter, he loved animals too much for that. But he enjoyed hitting a bull’s-eye.”
“That must hurt the bull,” Rusty said.
“It’s just the name for the center of a target,” Tracy hurriedly explained. “It’s not a real bull’s eye.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you could shoot like that?” Zane said.
“You mean you couldn’t tell I was a marksman by the way I handled the cookie shooter or the salad shooter?” she teased him.
“The first time you used the salad thing you shot lettuce all over the walls. And your cookie dough was so thick that you burned out the cookie shooter.”
“At least the juice extractor still works.”
“Thank heavens.”
“I’ve gotten you hooked on papaya-orange smoothies, haven’t I? Come on,” she jabbed him with a friendly elbow. “Confess.”
“No cowboy is gonna confess to liking papaya.”
“You mean it would ruin that bronc-riding image of yours?” Before going to the carnival, they’d attended the Annual Bliss Rodeo, which actually consisted of local ranchers and cowboys showing off their skills for a pot of four hundred dollars donated by Bliss merchants.
“I wasn’t in the bronc-riding contest,” Zane corrected her. “I was in the calf-roping section.”
“I sure hope you didn’t hurt that poor little thing.”
“Is that why you were standing up and cheering loud?” Rusty asked. “Because you thought Pa was hurting the calf?”
Zane shot her one of those under-the-brim-of-hishat looks, the kind that made her heart jump just like those broncs at the rodeo. “So you were standing up and cheering, huh?”
“For the calf.”
“For the calf, huh?”
“Absolutely.” That was her story and she was sticking to it.
But when his blue eyes caught hold of hers, she couldn’t look away. Her breath caught in her throat as sexual awareness unfurled deep within her.
“Come on, we don’t want to miss the fireworks!” Buck said, interrupting the moment.
Tracy felt like she’d already experienced the fireworks, the internal kind that always meant trouble was ahead.
A WEEK LATER, Rusty still hadn’t regained his usual good humor. Ever since Tracy had won the bear—which Lucky had named Fuzzy, much to Rusty’s disgust—he’ d been acting strangely.
She was preparing a huge bowl of fresh green beans for dinner when she looked through the window over the sink and saw Rusty out in the yard beyond the big cottonwood. He appeared to be lassoing a fence post. He did not look like a happy camper.
Leaving the vegetables in the sink, she wiped her hands on the kitchen towel before going outside and joining him. “What are you doing?”
“Nothin’,” he muttered, clearly not welcoming her company. But something inside of her sensed that despite his behavior, he was just about bursting to tell someone what his problem was.
“Is there something you’d like to talk about?” she asked.
Sure enough, he turned on her, his blue eyes—darker than his sister‘s—flared as the words spilled out. “You’re turnin’ Lucky into a girl.” He said that last word with utter disgust.
“You’ve got something against girls?” She’d already heard this from Lucky but she wanted to hear Rusty’s perspective on the subject.
“They’re dumb. We used to hang out all the time, now Lucky is acting dumb.”
Ah, so the problem was that Rusty was feeling threatened by the changes in Lucky and feeling left out by the closeness developing between Lucky and Tracy. Hey, she was getting pretty good at deciphering this kid stuff. She paused to mentally pat herself on the back before assuring Rusty, “Lucky may be acting more like a girl, but that doesn’t mean that she’s dumb or that the two of you won’t be as close as you’ve always been.”
“She named her bear Fuzzy. And she brushes her hair all the time now.”
“And she can still out-lasso you.” At Rusty’s surprised look, she said, “Buck told me so.”
“I’m getting better. That’s why I’m practicing.”
“Need any help?” Tracy asked, not really thinking he’d actually take her up on her offer. Silly her.
“Yeah!” His eyes lit up. “I need to rope something moving. Like you.”
Tracy wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.
“It’s not hard,” Rusty added. “All you have to do is walk around, and I’ll just float the rope over you, like this. Wait, I need to be taller.” He stood on a nearby bale of hay. “There. Now walk, but not too far.”
On the first few attempts, Rusty tossed the rope next to her or in front of her. She was amazed that a seven-and-a-half-year-old could do this well. Buck had told her that they’d started swinging string and imitating their father when they were “first able to travel on their hind feet.”
She’d often noticed Zane with a coiled rope in his hand as he strode toward the barn or worked with the horses in the corral. Sometimes he’d slap the rope against his thigh to get a horse’s attention. It certainly got her attention.
Plop. Yet again, Rusty’s child-sized rope fell in the dust a few feet in front of her.
“Here, what if I just stood here and put my arms out.” She showed him what she meant, going into a position that would do a scarecrow proud. “Could you aim for my arm?”
Biting his lip in concentration, Rusty gathered his rope and tried again. Bingo! The rope fell into place around her arm.
“Try moving again,” Rusty asked.
She did, more slowly this time, even turning around so that her back was to him. “You’ve gotten real close,” she encouraged him. “And that last shot, or whatever you call it, was a bull’s-eye.”
The rope whispered over her head and settled around her shoulders. Startled, she lowered her arms and the rope slid lower, to her waist before resting on her hips.
“Wrong terminology,” Zane murmured from behind her.
Only then did she realize that he’d been the one who’d lassoed her, not Rusty. She was now connected to him by the rope.
He gently tugged her closer. “An old cowboy once said that ropes, like guns, are dangerous. Guns go off, but ropes go on.”
“I’ve already had some experience in this household with ropes going on me,” she reminded him.
She could tell by the look in his eyes that he was remembering that time, when she’d been tied to the bed and he’d had to free her, his hands branding her for all time.
“Are you gonna help me practice ropin’?” Rusty eagerly asked his father.
“Sure thing.”
The only sure thing as far as Tracy was concerned was that she wasn’t sticking around out here to have Zane tie her up in knots any more that she already was.
“You’re on your own, cowboys,” she told them, freeing herself from the lasso and walking back to the ranch house.
9
ON THURSDAY, TRACY was determined to give the living room the thorough cleaning it deserved. No more twenty-five-watt bulbs to hide dust balls. Slipping the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies cassette in her portable player, she adjusted the compact headphones and set to work.
First she had to shove the furniture out of the way. It took some elbow grease, but she managed to get the couch and chairs against the walls so that she could vacuum the carpeting without obstacles.
The swing music just made it too tempting to dance while vacuuming. Her right hand may have been on the cleaning upright, but her left hand and foot were jiving. Every so often, she’d pause and make a crazy leg move before circling the vacuum as if it were her partner.
When the twins suddenly appeared in front of her, she yelped in surprise and tugged the headphones off her head.
“What are you doing?” Lucky asked.
“I was vacuuming...and swing dancing.” Something about the intrigued look in Lucky’s eyes made her a
dd, “Here, I’ll show you.”
Tracy took the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies cassette from her portable player, popped it into the stereo system in the living room, cued it to music of the hit opening number “Zoot Suit Riot” and then hit the repeat button.
Turning back to Lucky, she said, “Give me your hand.”
A minute later, Lucky and Tracy were swinging around the room—the little girl mimicking Tracy’s moves with enthusiasm. When Tracy completed a crazy leg move, kicking her left leg as high as she could to the side of Lucky, the little girl did the same. Meanwhile, Rusty had taken the turned-off vacuum as his partner.
When Lucky went into energetic moves of her own, Tracy took Rusty’s hand and swung him.
“What the Sam Hill is going on here?” Buck demanded as he joined them in the living room. He’d been in the den working on ranch paperwork.
“We’s dancin’!” Lucky breathlessly shouted back.
“Swing dancin’,” Rusty added.
“Then let me show you youngsters how it’s done.” Buck took to the makeshift dance floor like a pro, grabbing Tracy as his partner. With one arm around her back and the other holding her hand, he showed her jitterbug moves she’d only seen in the movies. He ended by rolling her over his back so that she went head over heels before landing on her feet.
“Me next!” Lucky squealed.
“No, me!” Rusty shouted.
With the twins Buck improvised by swinging them to each side of him, their feet off the floor as they giggled with delight to the blaring music.
“Enough,” Buck finally gasped before collapsing in his duct-taped recliner.
Tracy barely had enough energy left to turn off the cassette player before it replayed “Zoot Suit Riot” for the twentieth time. She made it to the couch before she, too, collapsed in breathless laughter.
“Where’d you learn to dance like that, Grandpa?” Lucky said.
“And how come you never taught us before?” Rusty asked.
“Didn’t know you young’uns would be interested.” Leaning forward, Buck propped his elbows on his knees and shook his head. “Whew! I haven’t jitterbugged since your grandmother and I were newlyweds. Appears to me that’s about how old this carpet is, too.” He squinted down at it. “Am I going blind or is the light getting bad in here?”
Feeling guilty, Tracy confessed. “I changed the bulbs to a lower wattage.”
“I can see why, looking at this rug. It’s in bad shape.”
This was her chance, and Tracy grabbed it. “Is the hardwood floor beneath it in good shape?”
“As far as I know.”
“I was thinking we could take up this rug and let the hardwood floor shine. I think it would make this room look great. Open it up.”
“Fine. Let’s get to it.”
His response took her by surprise. “You mean now?”
“You had some other time in mind?”
She did some rapid mental calculations. She could use the cold leftover pork roast from last night’s dinner to make hearty sandwiches for the men at lunch. A store-bought peach pie would finish off the meal. All in all, pretty much a self-serve meal, which gave her time to work on tearing up the carpeting before Buck changed his mind. “Let’s do it now.”
“Might as well put that music back on the tape player while we work.”
And so it was that they tore up the carpet to the swinging sound of the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies.
When Zane came in for lunch, he passed by the living room on his way to get something from the den. Standing in the doorway and staring at them in astonishment, he said, “Anyone care to explain why the living room carpet is all torn up?”
“Pa, Tracy taught us how to swing dance today!” Lucky said.
“And for that you had to tear up the carpet?”
Putting her hands on her hips, Tracy just stood there and grinned at him. “Darn right we did.”
“Was this your idea?” Zane asked Buck.
“Only if you think it’s a good one,” his father replied with a chortle.
“I’m not sure what I think,” Zane muttered before heading for the den.
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Buck called after him. His meaningful glance in Tracy’s direction had her wondering if Buck had noticed the chemistry between his son and her.
She found out two weeks later. It had taken that long to complete the living-room project. The room was now taking shape just as she’d envisioned it. She’d confiscated a Navajo rug from a storage room upstairs and laid it down on the oak floor, which glowed with a patina only age could produce. A throw featuring horses in browns and blacks hid most of the duct tape on Buck’s recliner.
Today she was checking out the den to see if anything from there could be used in the newly redone living room.
The largest piece of furniture was the desk, which was an L-shaped design. On top of it was a computer with a monitor and printer. Seeing her curious look, Buck said, “That machine sure comes in handy for keeping ranch records, calving, hay production and accounting, that sort of stuff. I told Zane right fast that getting it was one of the smartest things he ever did.”
“Next thing you know, you’ll be cruising the Internet.”
Buck just snorted and went on to proudly point out the stuffed armadillo his great-great grandfather had brought up from Texas.
The stuffed armadillo could stay where it was. Averting her eyes from it, she instead focused on the various items on the wall. There was Zane’s college degree and Reno’s as well. Family photos, both old and new, adorned one wall. And there was a set of lovely framed cross-stitch pieces on the far wall.
Stepping closer, she realized they weren’t the traditional sayings but were instead Cockeyed Curly’s poems.
“Don’t tell me Curly was an accomplished cross-stitcher as well as a poet and thief?” she said.
“My grandmother did those up. The words are from Curly.”
She read one aloud.
“Don’t never confuse me with Robin Hood.
I took from the rich as best I could.
But where it goes is just to me.
The poor can do their own robbery.”
Another was just two lines:
I’m Curly the robbin’ poet.
Now we both know it.
“You never told me how your visit with your son Cord went. Did you have time to look for the treasure map or was that just a ruse to get the twins to go with you?”
“Don’t rightly know what a ruse is,” Buck replied, “but the truth of the matter is that I didn’t have time to do any map searching. The kids got antsy, so I couldn’t look through the old trunks I got stored up there.”
“The twins? Antsy? I find that hard to believe,” she murmured with a bat of her lashes.
Buck chortled just as she knew he would.
“Now that I’ve got you in a good mood, how about letting me move this wrought-iron floor lamp into the living room.”
“Sure you don’t want the armadillo?”
“I wouldn’t dream of moving it,” she demurred. “Not when it’s been providing such good luck right from where it’s at.”
“How about this here sign.” He pointed to the carved western pine.
“Cowboy’s Logic—Be Sure to Taste Your Words Before You Spit Them Out,” she read aloud. “Hmm, your son might have need of it in here. No, I’ll just take this.”
She grabbed hold of the floor lamp and took it to the living room before Buck could offer to do it for her.
“There.” She stepped back to admire the room. “Do you think Zane will like it?”
Buck narrowed his eyes to give her an intense look. “Appears my oldest son of a buck has made quite an impression on you.”
“He’s my boss.”
“He’s more than that.” Seeing her glare, Buck held out his hands in a conciliatory way. “Now don’t go gettin’ all defensive with me. I know how she-folk are. Don’t like admittin’ what’s in their
hearts any more than we do. But I ain’t blind, although I thought I was going that way when you changed the bulbs in here. Glad you put them bright ones back in. Now where was I...oh, yes. We were discussing how Zane is a tad slicker shy when it comes to city gals.”
She blinked at him. “Slicker shy?”
“Cowboy term. Some horses shy at the rustle of a slicker.”
She knew from reading Western romances that a slicker was a type of long oilskin raincoat worn out on the range. She didn’t know what that had to do with her.
Buck seemed eager to explain. “See, the same way some horses shy away at certain things or sounds, some people do the same thing.”
“I already know Zane’s opinion of women from the big city,” Tracy said. “He’s made himself very clear on that subject.”
“Seems to me he may be saying one thing and doing another. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Like a pair of lovesick calves.”
She laughed at his words. “You’re exaggerating. I just want him to think well of me, that’s all. I don’t like people thinking I’m incompetent.”
Even so, she was the first to admit she hadn’t become a Martha Stewart clone overnight. While she had finally mastered the intricacies of fabric softeners so that the towels no longer felt like sandpaper, just yesterday she’d forgotten to plug in the Crock-Pot and dinner had been almost two hours late. But at least the roast and vegetables had been edible once they’d finally cooked.
Murph’n’Earl had been the ones to alert her to the advantages of using a slow cooker like a Crock-Pot. It seems that Murph’s first wife had been a good cook, but a little lacking in the faithfulness department.
Not that either cowhand talked about his past much, or anything else for that matter. Mostly they just ate their meals in silence, only resorting to shuffling their feet and bending their hats when called upon to speak.
Not that they wore their hats while eating. They were always careful to remove them in her presence, which is when the hat-bending began in earnest.
More at ease with the art of conversation were both Susan Grey and Annie Benson, who had phoned her after the Fourth of July celebration and offered their own easy recipes for her to try.